


if this is what love is

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unhealthy Relationships, hey they broke up for a reason!, yknow since zara gets up to her pheromone fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: She opens her mouth to make the point that she’s wearing this purely for comfort to sleep in, that Zara needs to get off of her and out of her room so that she can start doing so, but then Zara leans in and lightly brushes their lips together and her knee slides up to press against her crotch. Lyn’s breath hitches despite herself, flooding her nose with that sweet perfume smell as she inhales, and as Zara smugly pulls back she licks her lips on automatic. Strawberry.“Are you using your pheromones on me?” she asks shakily. She wishes she didn't have to. She wishes it was the first time she’s felt the need to ask this.





	if this is what love is

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt on the kinkmeme: WHAT HAPPENED? BE SPECIFIC. I DO KNOW IT GENERALLY BUT ITS HOTTER TO KNOW THE DETAILS.

They’ve just finished a show, and Lyn’s desperately looking forward to curling up somewhere quiet and dark to decompress, far away from the roar of the crowd and the sting of the instruments and the intensely bright spotlights. Playing with the Kaiburr Crystals is always an intoxicatingly adrenaline fueled experience, but as she slips away to shower the sweat and glitter off, she can feel the exhaustion start to creep in. Or more accurately, slam the kriffing door off the hinges and uppercut her with a set of spiked fatigue brass knuckles. Metaphorically. In her brain.

Krif, she’s tired.

Shower first, then nap. She stinks.

She leaves her show costume behind her in a haphazard trail on the floor, taken off as she walks. She’ll clean it up later.

She already feels too warm from the glow of the lights and the exertion from dancing along to the beat, so she sets the water to the colder side of lukewarm and just rests her forehead on the pane of glass for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the water run over her. Force, she’s beat.

After a long moment, she can finally bring herself to pick up a washcloth and some soap, and she takes care of business. She washes up. She turns off the water. She towels off. She puts on a loose, baggy sleep shirt and pads barefoot through the hallways of the bands ship towards her room. The door opens with a woosh at the touch of her hand to the identification pad, and then closes behind her. She doesn’t bother turning the lights on, and instead just slowly stumbles towards her bed to collapse. She sighs with bone tired relief as she sinks into the soft covers, finally surrounded by blessed darkness and silence--

The door whooshes back open, washing the room with the bright light from the hallway. Lyn glare-squints at her intruder, already feeling groggy and grumpy about it. She wants to _sleep._

Zara’s there, silhouetted against the entrance, still wearing her show costume, still sweaty, still dazzling.

“How do you have access to my room,” Lyn asks flatly, absolutely unamused by this breach of privacy.

Zara’s teeth are so blindingly bright it’s easy to see her grin even as the rest of her is obscured by shadows. “Why, darling, this is the _bands_ ship. Any of our hands can open any door on it. We share everything.”

“That sounds like a poor policy that could lead to a lot of inter team friction. And why wasn’t I told--”

“I think it’s beautiful! And we certainly haven’t had any problems,” Zara swings her hips as she enters the room, the door closing behind her, leaving them alone in the darkness with only a few small blinking lights from various electronics strewn around the room and the bright white of Zara’s teeth and eyes, _“sharing._ Speaking of friction…”

“That was pretty blunt by your usual standards, Zara,” she says, briefly amused, but the feeling quickly sinks underneath her exhaustion. “And no friction tonight, no.”

“Lyn!” Zara cries out, approaching slowly, less sure than Lyn is with the layout of this room without the help of sight. “Don’t you _like_ me any longer?”

Lyn can’t help a slight smile at the audible playful pout in her voice, but it quickly dies away. She wants to be asleep. “It’s not that I am suddenly and mysteriously not attracted to you any longer, Zara. I’m just very tired. Maybe later.”

“How could you possibly be tired after something like that?” she asks, coming closer instead of leaving. Lyn frowns, and it doesn’t leave as quickly as the smile had.

“How _couldn’t_ I be?”

“The crowd, Lyn, they loved us! Couldn’t you feel it in the air? Couldn’t you see it on their faces, hear it in their screaming? They were _screaming_ for _us,_ darling. We did that!”

She hadn’t been able to see anyone’s face through the glare of the lights, and all she’d heard was their own blaring music, and underneath it, perhaps, an indiscernible wall of sound, so large and multitudinous that it had been impossible to parse in any way. She’d just been focusing on playing correctly through all of the distractions.

But as Zara places a knee on her mattress by her hip, a hand by her head, swinging her other knee over her, hovering over her, some excitement actually manages to stir inside of her. Her perfume and her musk wafts sweetly in the small space between them, and Zara’s breath washes over her face. It smells like tequila.

Zara clicks the small light by Lyn’s bedside on, and it washes them in a faint, dim yellow tinted light. It makes the glitter in Zara’s eyeshadow and lipgloss sparkle, and the stark shadows painted across her beautiful face and cleavage almost look artful. Zara blinks in the sudden light, focuses on her gaze down on Lyn, and then smirks.

“Oh, love,” she says with fond exasperation, a wry twist to her mouth. “You’re so pretty, why would you ever wear a worn out rag like that? You’d look better in anything else. Like for example: nothing.”

She opens her mouth to make the point that she’s wearing this purely for comfort to sleep in, that Zara needs to get off of her and out of her room so that she can start doing so, but then Zara leans in and lightly brushes their lips together and her knee slides up to press against her crotch. Lyn’s breath hitches despite herself, flooding her nose with that sweet perfume smell as she inhales, and as Zara smugly pulls back she licks her lips on automatic. Strawberry.

“Are you using your pheromones on me?” she asks shakily. She wishes she didn't have to. She wishes it was the first time she’s felt the need to ask this.

“It wounds me that you’d even feel the need to ask, dear,” Zara says, not sounding terribly wounded at all, but more preoccupied with sliding her hand up underneath Lyn’s oversized shirt instead, revealing more orange-brown skin inch by inch, her meticulously manicured nails almost tickling her as they graze with sensual slowness over and past her stomach. “I’m afraid any attraction you feel for me is genuine. It truly is a curse, to be so beautiful.”

She curls her nails into Lyn’s skin a little at that, and she instinctively sharply inhales to avoid the sudden sharpness. Zara laughs softly, sounding amused and endeared in equal measures.

The first time Lyn had asked if Zara was using her pheromones on her and had been given a denial, she had apologized profusely for so rudely assuming. And the next time. And the next time. But now, she’s not so sure. She doesn’t go wet so quickly for anyone else. There’s something special about Zara. The question is, is that special something her pheromones, or is it… love? Lyn doesn’t want to ruin this, if it’s the latter. But she doesn’t want to stick around if it’s the former. She’s torn. She’s uncertain. She’s--

“You’re thinking too much, darling,” Zara purrs, and then kisses Lyn deeply with tongue.

It abruptly becomes much harder to think. Zara just tastes so _good,_ like some kind of delicacy instead of another living being, and her hand has by now come up to one of her breasts and is cupping it. Her thumb comes up to rub at her nipple, coaxing it into hardness, and that’s enough, Lyn’s finally filled with enough of what feels like electricity to be able to stand not moving for a second longer.

Lyn grinds her pelvis down onto Zara’s knee, and Zara smiles into the kiss like she’s won something.

“That’s it, dear, wonderful work,” she praises her as she leaves her lips to press kisses down Lyn’s throat. Lyn sighs with helpless pleasure, and turns her rapidly dwindling attention to taking off Zara’s clothes. It isn’t easy. She’s still in her concert costume, and it’s full of complicated straps and hidden zippers to hold the whole alluring looking but entirely impractical outfit together. She clumsily fumbles with them for a long moment as Zara giggles at her and sucks hickies into her neck, until she remembers that they never use a concert outfit twice anyways and just starts ripping shit apart.

Zara gasps, delighted and pleased. “Now _this_ is the enthusiasm I was looking for earlier.”

And then she pulls Lyn’s shirt off of her entirely, muttering something about burning it later, shucks off the torn pieces of what’s left of her skimpy dress, and she dives back into another kiss with Lyn, her hand sliding down her body and coming to a rest cupping her pussy in what Lyn headily, distantly realizes is meant as a reward for Lyn’s display of eagerness.

As Zara gently but firmly starts rubbing at her clit, Lyn starts to feel like she’s floating. It’s like she’s being swept up in the heat of a moment of a performance, in tune with the rest of the band, the crowd, the instruments, the music, and it’s hard to think with anything but her body, to do anything but live in the moment and have fun and be perfect.

She wonders if this is what love is.

She wonders if this just means that Zara uses her pheromones on her when they’re on stage as well.

All wondering is forgotten as Zara inserts one of her fingers into her, mindful of her manicure. It’s not too sharp or long, but still.

“Oh,” Lyn says helplessly. “Oh, oh.”

 _“Sing_ for me, sweetheart,” Zara coos.

Her room isn’t soundproofed. Or properly locked, apparently. That would explain why Lyn’s walked into a threesome more than once on this ship.

“Come on,” Zara coaxes her, pushes, insistently weedling. Her finger goes deeper, curls. “You sound so much prettier than you think. You could be on vocals, if you wanted to.”

Lies, exaggeration. Everyone Lyn’s ever sung in front of has been forced to agree that she sounds like a dying bantha. But she can’t summon so much as a flicker of indignation at the blatant falseness of her praise, she’s too aroused to feel anything but desperation.

“I’ll eat you out if you make noise,” Zara promises, and Lyn immediately throws her head back against her pillow and moans so loudly she’s sure she can be heard on the other side of the ship, her back arching, eyes squeezing shut. She wants to be eaten out. She wants to come. She wants for Zara to stop talking. She’ll moan for that.

Zara makes some pleased noises, and then makes her way down to Lyn’s crotch, making sure to take her sweet time as she does so, stopping to kiss at and suck on Lyn’s skin on her way down, even occasionally throwing in a few playful nips and bites that make her twitch and gasp in response. Finally, she gets there.

“Remember,” Zara says, her hot breath washing against the increasingly sensitive lips and glistening folds of Lyn’s entrance, “you have to continue making noise, or else I’ll stop. Understood, darling?”

Lyn nods quickly and repeatedly, and then stops with abrupt realization and sheepishness. “Yes, Princess.”

 _Princess._ It's the first time she's ever called her that. 

“That’s more like it,” she says, sounding oh so satisfied, and then she finally seals her lips over Lyn’s clit and _sucks._

Lyn bites her lip harshly, remembers herself, and instead cries out and punches the headboard of her bed. Zara tightens her grip on Lyn’s hips, her nails digging in, in what Lyn suspects is yet another reward. She knows that Lyn likes it rough.

She licks her way into her, and Lyn stutters a moan, reflexively cutting herself off at the start and then immediately correcting her mistake a fraction of a second later. It makes her sound like she’s driven crazed with lust. It’s how she feels, her thoughts scattered and hard to grab, the motivation to even try and do so near impossible to muster with Zara’s mouth doing those wonderful things to her.

“Zara,” she breathes her name like it’s a curse. “Zara, Zara, please, for _krif’s sake.”_

She gets a hum that makes her toes curl from the vibrations in reply. Lyn doesn’t even know what she’s begging for, but Zara sure isn’t supplying it.

In a snap decision, she threads her fingers through Zara’s hair, hands cupping the back of her head, and she shoves her deeper against her without so much as a warning. Zara makes a sound of startlement, her fingers digging in again, and then she starts uncontrollably giggling, her shoulders shaking. It feels good enough that Lyn can’t bring herself to draw her back away, but Zara’s tongue isn’t moving with half as much expertise and deft preciseness as it had a moment ago, and her hands tighten in Zara’s hair with frustration.

She just wants to _come,_ force damn it. It’s been a long night, filled with overwhelming stage performances and Zara, who’s overwhelming all on her own. It’s like her entire mind has been teased to oversensitivity, every touch and look and word _too much._ She wants to rest. She wants to be alone. She desperately wants Zara.

(It’s not like her, to have such conflicting wants.)

“I’ll sing for you,” Lyn compromises. “Just for you, if you just let me come already, _Anakin Skywalker!”_

Zara’s eyes snap up to meet hers, considering and cunning, and in that moment she’s the information broker, the woman who mercilessly negotiates prices and weighs what’s worth her product and what isn’t.

Her lips part from Lyn’s lower ones. Glistening with wetness. “I’ll hold you to that, darling.”

And then she dives back in, and she doesn’t do anything particularly different that Lyn can tell but her nerves are _singing,_ they’re on _fire,_ every touch and shift is a million touches and shifts in one, and she doesn’t even have to force herself to scream with pleasure that blows every single thought right out of her head.

She thinks she might be drunk with arousal, she’s _sure_ that this is love, she’s never felt so good in her life, so overwhelmed and vulnerable and desperate and she wants for it to be over, she _needs_ to climax, to reach the crescendo--

Zara gives her a deep, filthy lick, a hand reaching up to thumb at her clit, the other one raking her nails down her thigh _hard._

Lyn doesn’t even have enough composure to vaguely hear or register whatever noises she makes as she finally, finally comes.

She’s blissed out, floating and at peace in the most wonderful afterglow she’s ever experienced. She breaks out of it after who knows how long at the feel of Zara nosing at her neck, of her inhaling her scent in deeply.

“What…?” she says groggily, still fuck-dazed, and Zara draws back sharply, guiltily, and then makes a nervous laugh.

“Sorry, dear,” she says. “It’s just a thing my species does. Go to sleep, you’ve deserved it.”

 _I don’t need to deserve it,_ Lyn thinks.

“But you haven’t…” is what she says instead, because she’s dead tired and doesn’t want to start an argument. It’s near impossible to do so with Zara, anyways. She doesn’t like arguing, so she doesn’t do it even when others very much want to do so.

“Oh, I just did, actually,” Zara says with a laugh and a smile. “Nothing’s more satisfying for my kind than other people’s pleasure.”

So that’s why she’d come into her room and her bed, she realizes. For Lyn’s pleasure. For _Zara’s_ satisfaction.

“I think Angel was looking around for you, earlier,” she says weakly.

Zara perks up. Where does she get all of that energy from? “Oh, really?”

“Yes, I think so.” She’s too tired to try and expound on the lie.

“Best go and see what she wants then!” And she hops out of bed and casually strides right out of her room, still naked. Lyn stares tiredly after her for a moment, before forcing herself out of bed with a groan. Walks over to her door. Shoves some furniture in front of it, barricading herself inside of her room. Walks back to her bed, dragging her feet, and collapses back into her sheets that now reek like sex and Zara.

She wrinkles her nose at the pleasant, addictive scent, reaches for a bottle of spray on deodorant, and covers her entire bed and half of the room with it, until she can smell nothing but the cloying chemical smell of rose petals. She relaxes. Turns the light off. Curls up into a ball, tugging a sheet over herself. Enjoys the quiet, the dark, and the solitude. 

Away from Zara and her pheromones, Lyn comes to her conclusion. No, she doesn’t think that this is love.


End file.
